


The Smell of Rokassa in the Morning

by Kasamira



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Bad Parenting, Breakfast, Childhood Memories, Cultural Differences, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Memories, all of Garak's memories should come with warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 23:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29865510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasamira/pseuds/Kasamira
Summary: Breakfast on the Promenade with Bashir leads Garak to some darker imaginings
Relationships: Julian Bashir & Elim Garak, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 7
Kudos: 43





	The Smell of Rokassa in the Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Garak's views on cereal are not my own, I actually love the stuff, but I could understand how it would seem... unappealing from his point of view.

Cereal was one of the most vile human foods in existence. 

A form of sustenance that was slimy, yet hard. 

Crunchy but soggy. 

A morning meal was meant to be warming, filling children and adults alike with warmth to carry them through the day. Keep small children's temperatures raised during the dry months, each swallow of steaming rokassa juice was like a sip of sun, warming his scales like a basking rock.

Cereal somehow managed to be served in only the worst conceivable ways- cold, tepid and a lukewarm mass of brown slop, desiccated fruit remains, all drowning in sugar. 

_Great Guls, the smell._

And the doctor's nose wrinkled at the very mention of fish juice! 

He could remember Mila teaching him how to make the broth. Before bed each day, or in the mornings before the red dawn had broken. Not much more than a hatchling himself she would lift him in her strong arms and set him on the countertop opposite her. He was her taster. 

_"Is it done yet, Elim?"_

_She'd hand him a big spoon, watching him with identical blue eyes. After he'd seen four seasons Mila had let him hold it. In his memory, the warm metal bite into the sides of his fingers, and her hand on his elbow steadied him from wobbling. Fine motor skills were still developing, evidently so was his sight because in his mind's eye the metal spoon was bigger than his face._

_Childish memories._

_Steam wafted off the rokassa, and Elim very carefully blew on it. Mila used to do that for him, but he wasn't a hatchling anymore. He could cool his own juice._

_"Not yet, Mila."_

_Her hand stroked over his eyeridge, smoothing back his hair in thanks._

_Seasons past, Garak could still feel the warmth of her soft scales against his temples. It had taken years to realize, that as a hatchling he hadn't the slightest idea how to tell if rokassa had been properly prepared._

_He'd never mentioned that to her._

"Come on, Garak! Breakfast is the most important meal of the day." 

How long had he been awake? Surely, it was a sign of the day's early hour, that Garak nearly found himself acquiescing to a statement so Cardassian in nature. 

_Disconcerting_. 

"I question the veracity of that statement, doctor, having seen the meal you consume daily." 

He disagreed with the human as a matter of principle.

The morning meal was the only one taken with family, in preparation for the day. A time for both ones family and ones duty, if they could ever be separated in such stark terms. When did one not equal the other, leaving both forever intertwined?

"You might have very well seen whatever I eat, but I've smelled what you drink every day, Garak. It's enough to strip a few microns off the bulkheads. Poor Nog nearly started gagging last week when environmental controls were on the fritz and he stood downwind of you." 

"I did offer to share, doctor. The young cadet turned me down, quite rudely too! I was only trying to offer a kind sugges-" 

"I'm only saying, next time we should take a seat in front of Quark, at the bar. I'd give it ten minutes before he files a complaint with Odo against you for gassing the replimat." 

"You know me, doctor, I get so clumsy when I'm flustered, shaky hands are a terrible thing on a tailor. We do such delicate work. My hand might slip on a glass, and then... _rokassa_ juice is a difficult liquid to remove from any surface." 

Bashir grinned. 

"Next time just make sure it's Quark you hit, if it's in front of Odo he'll have Quark fined for serving unsafe beverages." 

Or arrest me for assault. Odo's sense of duty might be admirable, but his inability to properly understand nuance was a long held source of annoyance for Garak. It did, usually, make his movements easy to predict, so one could hardly make much fuss.

Yet, even Garak couldn't have said for certain whom Odo held with less esteem, Quark or himself. He was not eager to test such a theory. The brig held no fond memories for him, even with clear forcefields the space was small, the walls contained. Self imposed limitations that felt far more tangible than his eyes told him were really there. It had been disconcerting at the best of times.

As a source of nutrition and method transport _rokassa_ was equally useful, one of the few liquids consumed by bodies of every station, fish juice was a staple the Order had utilized many times.

"How brazen I must be in your imagination, doctor?" 

Routine was a terrible habit to get into. His own, near weekly, lunches with Bashir were embarrassing enough.

Consuming the same liquids daily would have been a death sentence a few seasons ago.

_Now, he was free to imbibe as he wished,_ Garak thought with not a hint of bitterness. 

The Central Command did not impart the same common sense into its soldiers, or perhaps, the same creativity of mind. Those men always did suffer from lack of imagination, it was a humiliating reflection on the State when a Cardassian was entirely what he appeared to be. 

A dullness that extended far beyond their uniforms emanated from Glinn and Gul alike. 

Petty, unimaginative crimes made for dull extractions later. Garak preferred tidier conclusions, there seemed little need for showmanship when their ends would come without public trials. Private lessons with private ends were only useful as teaching material, and his years as a probe in need of a good demonstration were long behind him. Little creativity was needed to convey a message for such men, blunt objects for blunt men, too much subtlety and it would be lost. 

No, as a method of transport rokassa was unparalleled. Strong, distinctive smell and taste that would mask any additives, consumed in public by the masses, Garak enjoyed playing his lessons to the hilt for an audience. 

_Was the good doctor blushing?_

A faint redness was crawling up the young man's throat, painting smooth skin a delightful dusky color. 

"I'm not sure brazens the word for it." 

_Oh._

Something heavy pressed down on his eyelids, a rising warmth crept up Garak's flesh. 

_Do you imagine me often, my dear doctor?_

**Author's Note:**

> Rokassa is meant to come from a fruit but I've read far too much where it's actually fish juice. This was just a short little thing that's been bopping around in my head for a while.


End file.
